Ashara stepped out of the collapsing barrier like she was strolling out of a theater after the final act. She walked past the bisected remains of Latch Baby, whose top half had slumped forward, intestines uncoiling like wet ribbons onto the cracked pavement. The area smelled like burnt fabric, rot, and old music box brass.

  She massaged her right hand, flexing her fingers.

  “That took more effort than I wanted to give,” she muttered, rolling her wrist. “Creepy little shit.”

  The remnants of Crib of Hollow Lullabies still clung to her thoughts like whispers in the back of her skull. But she survived it. She survived a domain. That alone deserved a moment of pride.

  She looked up—

  Just in time to see Crimline crash through three buildings and disappear into the street below.

  Ashara gave a low whistle.

  “Damn.”

  She spotted Anaya, collapsed, bleeding, barely conscious.

  Out of range, but not out of reach.

  Ashara’s steps slowed into something almost ceremonial as she approached, her fingers twitching—that right hand itching, desperate to tear something open.

  One clean cut. Just one.

  But as she moved in, a hand clamped gently onto her shoulder.

  She turned her head slowly.

  A man stood behind her, tall and languid, his dreadlocks catching the moonlight like black silk. His eyes half-hidden behind a white blindfold, but the smirk curling his lips was unmistakable.

  He wore a designer robe, crisp and flowing with silver-threaded patterns shaped like serpents eating their own tails.

  “Seyvon,” Ashara grinned, already shifting her weight to strike.

  “Missed you too,” he replied—and before she could move, he formed a finger gun with his free hand.

  A pure mani blast erupted point-blank into her stomach.

  The impact launched her back like a bullet, sending her crashing through a parked car, then through two stores, before finally smashing into a last wall.

  She gasped, curling slightly, blood bubbling between her teeth.

  Seyvon casually walked past her cratered entry point and approached Anaya.

  She twitched once. Tried to move.

  She couldn’t.

  “Good,” he said softly, crouching beside her. “Stay nice and still.”

  He tilted her chin up with two fingers, gaze hidden behind the blindfold. Her head lolled, barely able to resist.

  From his open palm, he summoned a small, smooth egg, black and pulsing with faint energy. He coated it in a thin layer of mani and aura, veiling it from detection, then gently forced it past her lips, pressing it deep down her throat.

  Anaya gagged, but she was too far gone to resist.

  He leaned in, his voice now little more than a murmur, full of cold amusement.

  “Now listen close, sweetheart.”

  Then he lifted his blindfold.

  She saw his eyes.

  Deep crimson, spinning with three black tomoe orbiting a central void—a symbol of control, perception, and something far more ancient. It was like staring into a living sigil, a seal that watched back. Time slowed. Space pulsed.

  Whatever he whispered to her, it changed the rhythm of her breath. His own experiment was now getting started.

  Then he let her fall back, limp and stunned.

  In a blink, he reappeared next to Ashara, standing above her with one hand in his pocket, the other offering absolutely nothing.

  “You ready to talk now?” he asked, smiling down at her like they were old friends.

  Ashara coughed blood and smirked.

  “That all depends,” she rasped. “You finally gonna stop flirting and buy me dinner, or what?” She spat a glob of blood to the side and grinned.

  “Sure, I can do that… after our little meeting,” he said mockingly.

  She snorted. “Ew. ‘Little meeting’ sounds weird. Am I in trouble?” She tilted her head and cooed playfully, “Am I gonna get punished, Seyvon?”

  Seyvon laughed. “No punishment. Not today.”

  He stepped over broken glass, the faint shine of his designer robe fluttering like silk touched by shadow. “I want you to join me.”

  Ashara raised a brow. “You asking for a date or an allegiance?”

  “Both,” he said, half-joking. “But really—I’m asking because someone thinks they can pull the strings behind all this. What they don’t know is…” He stepped closer and lifted a finger to his temple. “That spot was reserved for me.”

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  Ashara gave a tired grin, teeth streaked red. “You’re dramatic. I like that.”

  The air subtly shifted.

  Seyvon activated Understanding.

  A low pulse radiated from him, subtle and dense—his presence blooming around the scene like ink diffusing in water. He read everything. Every crack in her bones. Every twitch in her eyelids. Every intention behind her posture.

  He saw her.

  Inside and out.

  Not just her bloodlust.

  But the root of it.

  The desire beneath the madness—the same thing screaming under her smirks and stabs.

  “You don’t want control,” he said softly. “You want stability. A place to exist where your nature won’t get you put down.”

  Ashara didn’t respond immediately. Her expression flattened for the first time.

  He went on. “You want to be a monster. And be safe doing it.”

  Silence lingered.

  “I can give you that.”

  Ashara licked blood from her lips and tilted her head. “And what do you get out of it?”

  “Loyalty,” Seyvon said, simple and clean. “The kind that’s useful. Not worship. Just alignment.”

  She stared at him, studying the lines in his face—then let out a slow exhale. “You’re smart. That makes this a little boring.”

  He smirked. “Then let’s make it interesting.”

  A sigil burned faintly in the air between them.

  “A Pact,” he said.

  Ashara chuckled dryly. “Soulbound? You really want me that bad, huh?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. But I don’t trust you so this only works if you agree.” He winked at her.

  Ashara tapped her finger against the wall behind her, smearing blood like a signature. “Fine. But if I feel chained—”

  “You won’t,” he said. “You’ll be unleashed.”

  The Pact flared as it sealed. A white spark connected their souls for a moment before vanishing into the ether. The pact of peace between them was now active. They could no longer cause each other harm for as long as the pact stood.

  Randy appeared from the shadows behind Seyvon. Mismatched limbs and strange biological harmony. With an almost gentle grip, Randy scooped Ashara up in one long, stabilizing hand.

  “Weirdly comforting,” she muttered as she leaned against him. “Sup, handsome.”

  Footsteps echoed nearby, and a ripple in the air preceded Mason's arrival. He stepped through with a calm grace, tapping his brush staff against his palm.

  “That spar with Savannah and Lucenzo was fun,” he said lightly. He looked over at Ashara. “Aww, the Butcher. Nice to see you in one piece sweetheart.”

  Ashara glanced sideways, bruised and exhausted. “Sup,” she said, lazily flashing two fingers while half-draped in Randy’s grip.

  Seyvon folded his arms as he looked between them.

  “Well, glad you had fun,” he said, satisfied yet sarcastically. “Phase one is done. The egg’s been planted. So we have two ways to infratrate…”

  “What?” Mason asked

  “I thought whoever did Red Park would show up. Or maybe all this death and destruction would summon something….”

  “Maybe ask Holiday. But we done all we can here, let’s move before E.R.O sends other S ranks and Riftkeepers.”

  Ashara's hand shot up. “Can we get waffles?”

  “Ma’am you just committed ninety different war crimes and “butchered” New York City."

  “Hahaha—not clever and I want waffles!”

  They continued to bicker and argue, while Seyvon thought things over.

  He glanced toward the city skyline, flickering with emergency beacons and fallen structures.

  He didn’t trust Holiday—not for a second. She moved like a shadow with too much patience, like someone who already knew the end of the story and was just flipping through chapters out of boredom.

  And he’d be damned if he danced to her tune.

  No more sitting on the edge.

  No more letting the board shift without touching a piece.

  He had fully inserted himself into the game now. Quietly. Efficiently. Precisely.

  The stage always had room for one more.

  And he never liked being in the audience anyway.

  ——

  After the last reptilian fish dissolved into oily steam, Savannah dropped from Lucenzo’s barrier perch, her breathing ragged but sharp. Lucenzo landed beside her, both of them moving without hesitation, tracking the fading imprint of Anaya’s aura through the smoke and ruin.

  The scene was apocalyptic.

  Craters littered the streets like hollowed scars, the pavement shattered and still glowing in places. Buildings leaned at unnatural angles. Bodies—twisted, scorched, some barely recognizable—lined the block like broken toys left behind in a storm.

  The smell of blood, ash, and burned plastic choked the air.

  “There,” Lucenzo said, spotting the crushed balcony where Anaya had last landed. They passed the remains of Latch Baby. Causing them both to think: “The Devil's Den?”

  While he sprinted to her, dropping to a knee and checking her pulse, Savannah didn’t even slow.

  She was already moving to the massive impact crater down the street—the one Anaya’s target had been sent through.

  Savannah’s wind whipped around her as she dropped in, her slippers hovering an inch above the surface as the wind cushioned her descent. Her eyes narrowed as she followed the path of destruction—a tunnel of collapsed concrete, torn rebar, and singed glass.

  It went deep. But not deep enough to hide.

  She found her.

  At the end of the path, in the lowest chamber of the demolished sewer access, stood the battered figure of Crimline—her black tactical coat torn, her legs dragging unevenly as she limped.

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly, skin pale and lips tight. The burn marks across her arms told the story of the brutal encounter, and the hollowed look in her eyes confirmed it.

  She turned with a jerk when she sensed Savannah’s presence.

  The young woman stood in the debris path like a phantom in green. Loose tank top, black shorts, and house slippers— she wasn’t dressed to fight, Crimline found it kind of insulting.

  Savannah didn’t even blink.

  Crimline, her breath sharp, summoned a pistol, holding it with both trembling hands.

  Savannah smiled, slow and predatory.

  “Oi,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “I’m glad you’ve still got some fight in you.”

  She took a step forward, wind swirling around her calves.

  “One—it shows you’re not a punk.”

  Her emerald eyes glistened under the faint moonlight bleeding through the rubble above.

  “And two—” Her voice dropped, almost too soft to be a threat. “I really wanted to punch something.”

  ——

  Lucenzo muttered under his breath as he pressed glowing fingers gently against Anaya’s side, his healing technique weaving between bruised organs and microfractures.

  “Why the hell did Mason Marwell show up?” he murmured, eyes darting across her unconscious features. “Of all people… and what was Devil’s Den doing here.”

  Mason was an artistic lunatic, but not stupid. Dangerous, but not reckless. And yet he’d spared both Lucenzo and Savannah—when he easily could’ve turned them into pieces for his next canvas.

  It didn’t make sense.

  His thoughts were cut short when he heard the rhythmic crunch of a body dragging through loose rubble. He looked up—

  Savannah walked toward him, dragging an unconscious woman by the ankle. Her half-destroyed mask clung loosely to a face that was swollen, bruised, and barely recognizable. Crimline.

  Savannah looked… content.

  Not joyful. Not proud.

  Just slightly happier than she had been before—an odd contrast against the backdrop of smoking buildings and broken streetlamps.

  “She’s still breathing?,” Lucenzo asked, brow furrowed.

  Savannah dropped Crimline with a thud next to him.

  “You look at her face and tell me .”

  Lucenzo sighed, glancing down at the mangled Judicator. “Yeah… she’s breathing. I think. But why—”

  She shrugged, cutting him off. “Why has anything been happening lately?”

  They both stood there for a moment. Breathing. Thinking. Sirens in the distance were growing louder—closer. A low whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades began cutting through the sky above them.

  Savannah suddenly laughed, a short, dry chuckle.

  Lucenzo looked at her sideways. “What’s so funny?”

  She shook her head. “Just thinking. What’re the odds, huh? Two disasters back to back. Maybe I’m cursed.”

  Lucenzo placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “You’re not bad lu—”

  She shoved his hand off, hard.

  “Oi,” she growled. “I’m still pissed.”

  Lucenzo chuckled under his breath, but backed off.

  She stepped back, rolled her neck, and started walking again.

  “Where are you going?” he called out.

  She didn’t answer.

  Didn’t need to.

  It wasn’t his business.

  She was heading home.

  That part of the city was still intact.

  She’d shower. Maybe get something to eat. Her shitty vacation was over. She was clocking in again.